Coffee with Greg Wise
It was an early start on Thursday 3 July. A morning train to London where I met Hazel, then a tube ride across town to The Hoxton in Holborn. Coffees were ordered and we sat preparing for our meeting with Greg Wise.
On the journey down, we read the story Greg had shared with Music To Die For. We listened to his chosen piece of music, a beautiful adagio from a Schubert string quintet, and sat quietly with the moments and memories he described so movingly.
Breath…
Greg wrote:
“A person’s first breath comes with a clamour, but their last breath is just one that doesn’t have another following it.”
This line stayed with me. It reminded me of something Dr Kathryn Mannix once wrote:
“There are only two days with fewer than twenty-four hours in each lifetime, sitting like bookends astride our lives. One is celebrated every year, yet it is the other that makes us see living as precious.”
Our first breath and our last breath define our lifespan. They literally begin and end our time here.
I imagine that witnessing both of these breaths is rare. Perhaps those who have lost a child will have experienced this. I can’t imagine the heartbreak. I was there for my husband Rob’s final breath. Rob’s mum was there for his first breath. Perhaps this is one of the things that binds us so tightly.
Greg arrived, fresh from his cycle across London, full of warmth and energy. From the moment he sat down, we felt a sense of connection, understanding, and ease. The conversation flowed immediately. We laughed, we listened, we were moved.
Three people meeting for the first time, yet bonded by shared experience. No need for small talk, no need for what Greg called “foreplay”. We were in it from the start.
We talked about love, loss, life and breath. We shared thoughts on grief, but also on joy. We spoke about the things that keep us going, including music, walking and Northumberland. We wondered whether someone’s final breath is a breath in or a breath out.
Kathryn Mannix has since told us that, in most cases, it is a breath out. That somehow adds to the beauty of her metaphor. Life as one long breath. An in-breath as we arrive in the world. An out-breath as we leave it.
A quiet reminder that life is finite. That it is precious. And that, if we are lucky enough to grow old, we should try to live it fully.
The idea of memento mori came into my mind. A reminder that we must all die. But also, perhaps, a reminder of how much life matters.
As we sat in the bar of The Hoxton, onlookers would have had no idea we had only just met, or that we were talking about death and grief. They would have seen three people chatting, laughing, and listening intently. Just people having a conversation.
But it was more than that.
It was a powerful reminder of the connection that can be sparked through story. A quiet demonstration of how death, when spoken about honestly, can bring people closer. A moment that made space for what it means to be human, and to be heard.
- Phillipa
Greg’s story - ‘A Mother’s Gift’ - goes live on our website this Friday 11th July - Stories
